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The War Trail: The Hunt of the Wild Horse
Chapter Eighty Six.
The Comanche Camp
We had reached our ground just at the moment I desired. It was twilight – dark enough to render ourselves inconspicuous under the additional shadow of the trees – yet sufficiently clear to allow a full reconnoissance of the enemy’s position. Our point of view was a good one – under a single coup-d’oeil commanding the encampment, and a vast extent of country around it. The hill we had climbed – a sort of isolated butte– was the only eminence of any considerable elevation for miles around; and the site of the camp was upon the plain that stretched away from its base – apparently beyond limit!
The plain was what is termed a “pecan” prairie – that is, a prairie half covered with groves, copses, and lists of woodland – in which the predominating tree is the pecan – a species of hickory (carya olivaeformis), bearing an oval, edible nut of commercial value. Between the groves and mottes of timber, single trees stood apart, their heads fully developed by the free play given to their branches. These park-looking trees, with the coppice-like groves of the pecan, lent an air of high civilisation to the landscape; and a winding stream, whose water, under the still lingering rays, glistened with the sheen of silver, added to the deception. Withal, it was a wilderness – a beautiful wilderness. Human hands had never planted those groves – human agency had nought to do with the formation or adornment of that lovely landscape.
Upon the bank of the stream, and about half a mile from the base of the hill, stood the Indian camp. A glance at the position showed how well it had been chosen – not so much for defence, as to protect it against a surprise.
Assuming the lodge – there was but one – as the centre of the camp, it was placed upon the edge of a small grove, and fronting the stream. From the tent to the water’s edge, the plain sloped gently downward, like the glacis of a fortification. The smooth sward, that covered the space between the trees and the water, was the ground of the camp. On this could be seen the dusky warriors, some afoot, standing in listless attitudes, or moving about; others reclining upon the grass, and still others bending over the fires, as if engaged in the preparation of their evening meal.
A line of spears, regularly placed, marked the allotment of each. The slender shafts, nearly five yards in length, rose tall above the turf – like masts of distant ships – displaying their profusion of pennons and bannerets, of painted plumes and human hair. At the base of each could be seen the gaudy shield, the bow and quiver, the embroidered pouch and medicine-bag of the owner; and grouped around many of them appeared objects of a far different character – objects that we could not contemplate without acute emotion. They were women: enough of light still ruled the sky to show us their faces; they were white women – the captives.
Strange were my sensations as I regarded those forms and faces; but they were far off – even a lover’s eye was unequal to the distance.
Flanking the camp on right and left were the horses. They occupied a broad belt of ground – for they were staked out to feed – and each was allowed the length of his lazo. Their line converged to the rear, and met behind the grove – so that the camp was embraced by an arc of browsing animals, the river forming its chord. Across the stream, the encampment did not extend.
I have said that the spot was well selected to guard against a surprise. Its peculiar adaptability consisted in the fact, that the little grove that backed the camp was the only timber within a radius of a thousand yards. All around, and even on the opposite side of the stream, the plain was treeless, and free from cover of any kind. There were no inequalities of ground, neither “brake, bush, nor scaur,” to shelter the approach of an enemy.
Had this position been chosen, or was it accidental? In such a place and at such a time, it was not likely they had any fear of a surprise; but with the Indian, caution is so habitually exercised, that it becomes almost an instinct; and doubtless under such a habit, and without any forethought whatever, the savages had fixed upon the spot where they were encamped. The grove gave them wood; the stream, water; the plain, pabulum for their horses. With one of these last for their own food, they had all the requisites of an Indian camp.
At the first glance, I saw the strength of their position – not so much with the eye of a soldier, as with that of a hunter and bush-fighter did I perceive it. In a military sense, it offered no point of defence; but it could not be approached by stratagem, and that is all the horse-Indian ever fears. Alarm him not too suddenly – give him five minutes’ warning, and he cannot be attacked. If superior in strength, you may chase him; but you must be better mounted than he to bring him to close combat. Retreat, not defence, is generally the leading idea of Comanche strategy, unless when opposed to a Mexican foe. Then he will stand fight with the courage of a master.
As I continued to gaze at the Indian encampment, my heart sank within me. Except under cover of a dark night – a very dark night – it could not be entered. The keenest spy could not have approached it: it appeared unapproachable.
The same thought must at that moment have occupied the minds of my companions; I saw the gloom of disappointment on the brows of all as they knelt beside me silent and sullen. None of them said a word; they had not spoken since we came upon the ground.
Chapter Eighty Seven.
No Cover
In silence I continued to scrutinise the camp, but could discover no mode of approaching it secretly or in safety.
As I have said, the adjacent plain, for nearly a thousand yards’ radius, was a smooth grass-covered prairie. Even the grass was short: it would scarcely have sheltered the smallest game – much less afford cover for the body of a man – much less for that of a horse.
I should willingly have crawled on hands and knees, over the half-mile that separated us from the encampment; but that would have been of no service; I might just as well have walked erect. Erect or prostrate, I should be seen all the same by the occupants of the camp, or the guards of the horses. Even if I succeeded in effecting an entrance within the lines, what then? Even should I succeed in finding Isolina, what then? what hope was there of our getting off?
There was no probability of our being able to pass the lines unseen – not the least. We should certainly be pursued, and what chance for us to escape? It was not probable we could run for a thousand yards with the hue and cry after us? No; we should be overtaken, recaptured, speared or tomahawked upon the spot!
The design I had formed was to bring my horse as close as possible to the camp; to leave him under cover, and within such a distance as would make it possible to reach him by a run; then mounting with my betrothed in my arms, to gallop on to my comrades. The men, I had intended, should be placed in ambush, as near to the camp as the nature of the ground would permit.
But my preconceived plan was entirely frustrated by the peculiar situation of the Indian encampment. I had anticipated that there would be either trees, brushwood, or broken ground in its neighbourhood, under shelter of which we might approach it. To my chagrin, I now saw that there was none of the three. There was no timber nearer than the grove in which we were lying – the copse excepted – and to have reached this would have been to enter the camp itself.
We appeared to have advanced to the utmost limit possible that afforded cover. A few feet farther would have carried us outside the margin of the wood, and then we should have been as conspicuous to the denizens of the camp, as they now were to us. Forward we dared not stir – not a step farther.
I was puzzled and perplexed. Once more I turned my eyes upon the sky, but I drew not thence a ray of hope; the heavens were too bright; the sun had gone down in the west; but in the east was rising, full, round, and red, almost his counterpart. How I should have welcomed an eclipse! I thought of Omnipotent power; I thought of the command of the Israelitish captain. I should have joyed to see the shadow of the opaque earth pass over that shining orb; and rob it of its borrowed light, if only for a single hour!
Eclipse or cloud there was none – no prospect of one or other – no hope either from the earth or the sky.
Verily, then, must I abandon my design, and adopt some other for the rescue of my betrothed? What other?
I could think of none: there was no other that might be termed a plan. We might gallop forward, and openly attack the camp? Sheer desperation alone could impel us to such a course, and the result would be ruin to all – to her among the rest. We could not hope to rescue her– nine to a hundred – for we saw and could now count our dusky foemen. They would see us afar off; would be prepared to receive us – prepared to hurl their masses upon us – to destroy us altogether. Sheer desperation!
What other plan? – what —
Something of one occurred to me at that moment: a slight shadow of it had crossed my mind before. It seemed practicable, though fearfully perilous; but what of peril? It was not the time, nor was I in the mood, to regard danger. Anything short of the prospect of certain death had no terror for me then; and even this I should have preferred to failure.
We had along with us the horse of the captive Comanche. Stanfield had brought the animal, having left his own in exchange. I thought of mounting the Indian horse, and riding him into the camp. In this consisted the whole of the scheme that now presented itself.
Surely the idea was a good one – a slight alteration of my original plan. I had already undertaken to play the rôle of an Indian warrior, while within the camp; it would only require me to begin the personation outside the lines, and make my entrée along with my débût. There would be more dramatic appropriateness, with a proportionate increase of danger.
But I did not jest thus; I had no thought of merriment at the time. The travesty I had undertaken was no burlesque.
The worst feature of this new scheme was the increased risk of being brought in contact with the friends of the warrior of the red hand – of being accosted by them, and of course expected to make reply. How could I avoid meeting them – one or more of them? If interrogated, how shun making answer? I knew a few words of the Comanche tongue, but not enough to hold a conversation in it. Either my false accent or my voice would betray me! True, I might answer in Spanish. Many of the Comanches speak this language; but my using it would appear a suspicious circumstance.
There was another source of apprehension: I could not confide in the Indian horse. He had endeavoured to fling Stanfield all along the way – kicking violently, and biting at his Saxon rider while seated upon his back. Should he behave in a similar manner with me while entering the camp, it would certainly attract the attention of the Indian guards. It would lead to scrutiny and suspicion.
Still another fear: even should I succeed in the main points – in entering the camp, finding the captive, and wresting her from the hands of her jailers – how after? I could never depend upon this capricious mustang to carry us clear of the pursuit – there would be others as swift, perhaps swifter than he, and we should only be carried back to die. Oh! that I could have taken my own steed near to the line of yonder guard – oh! that I could have hidden him there!
It might not be; I saw that it could not be; and I was forced to abandon the thoughts of it.
I had well-nigh made up my mind to risk all the chances of my assumed character, by mounting the Indian horse. To my comrades I imparted the idea, and asked their counsel.
All regarded it as fraught with danger; one or two advised me against it. They were those who did not understand my motives – who could not comprehend the sentiment of love – who knew not the strength and courage which that noble passion may impart. Little understood they how its emotions inspire to deeds of daring – how love absorbs all selfishness – even life becoming a secondary consideration, when weighed against the happiness or safety of its object. These rude men had never loved as I. I gave no ear to their too prudent counsels.
Others acknowledged the danger, but saw not how I could act differently. One or two had in their life’s course experienced a touch of tender feeling akin to mine. These could appreciate; and counselled me in consonance with my half-formed resolution. I liked their counsel best.
One had not yet spoken – one upon whose advice I placed a higher value than upon the combined wisdom of all the others. I had not yet taken the opinion of the earless trapper.
Chapter Eighty Eight.
Rube Consulting his Oracle
He was standing apart from the rest – leaning, I should rather say, for his body was not erect, but diagonal. In this attitude it was propped by his rifle, the butt of which was steadied against the stump of a tree, whilst the muzzle appeared to rest upon the bridge of Rube’s own nose.
As the man and the piece were about of a length, the two just placed in juxtaposition presented the exact figure of an inverted V, and the small close-capped skull of the trapper formed a sufficiently tapering apex to the angle. Both his hands were clasped round the barrel, near its muzzle, his fingers interlocking, while the thumbs lay flat – one upon each side of his nose.
At first glance, it was difficult to tell whether he was gazing into the barrel of the piece, or beyond it upon the Indian camp.
The attitude was not new to him nor to me; it was not the first time I had observed him in a posture precisely similar. I knew it was his favourite pose, when any question of unusual difficulty required all the energy of his “instincts.” He was now, as often of yore, consulting his “divinity,” presumed to dwell far down within the dark tube of “Targuts.”
After a time, all the others ceased to speak, and stood watching him. They knew that no step would be taken before Rube’s advice had been received; and they waited with more or less patience for him to speak.
Full ten minutes passed, and still the old trapper neither stirred nor spoke. Nor lip nor muscle of him was seen to move; the eyes alone could be detected in motion, and these small orbs, scintillating in their deep sockets, were the only signs of life which he showed. Standing rigid and still, he appeared, not a statue, but a scarecrow, propped up by a stick; and the long, brown, weather-washed rifle did not belie the resemblance.
Full ten minutes passed, and still he spoke not; his “oracle” had not yet yielded its response.
I have said that at the first glance it was difficult to tell whether the old man was gazing into the barrel of his gun or beyond it. After watching him closely, I observed that he was doing both. Now his eyes were a little raised, as if he looked upon the plain – anon they were lowered, and apparently peering into the tube. He was drawing the data of his problem from facts – he was trusting to his divinity for the solution.
For a long time he kept up this singular process of conjuration – alternating his glances in equal distribution between the hollow cylinder and the circle of vision that comprehended within its circumference the Comanche encampment.
The others began to grow impatient; all were interested in the result, and not without reason. Standing upon the limits of a life-danger, it is not strange they should feel anxiety about the issue.
Thus far, however, none had offered to interrupt or question the queer old man. None dared. One or two of the party had already had a taste of his quality when fretted or interfered with, and no one desired to draw upon himself the sharp “talk” of the earless trapper.
Garey at length approached, but not until Rube, with a triumphant toss of his head and a scarcely audible “wheep” from his thin lips, showed signs that the consultation had ended, and that the “joss” who dwelt at the bottom of his rifle-barrel had vouchsafed an answer!
I had watched him with the rest. I liked that expressive hitch of the head; I liked the low, but momentous sibillation that terminated the séance between him and his familiar spirit. They were signs that the knot was unravelled – that the old trapper had devised some feasible plan by which the Indian camp might be entered.
Garey and I drew near, but not to question him; we understood him too well for that. We knew that he must be left free to develop his purpose in his own time; and we left him free – simply placing ourselves by his side.
“Wal, Billee!” he said, after drawing a long breath, “an yurself, young fellur! whet do ’ee both think o’ this hyur bizness: looks ugly, don’t it – eh, boyees?”
“Tarnal ugly,” was Garey’s laconic answer.
“Thort so meself at fust.”
“Thar ain’t no plan o’ gettin’ in yander,” said the young trapper, in a desponding tone.
“The doose thur ain’t! what greenhorn put thet idee inter yur brain-pan, Bill?”
“Wal, thar are a plan; but ’tain’t much o’ a one: we’ve been talkin it over hyar.”
“Le’s hear it,” rejoined Rube, with an exulting chuckle – “le’s hev it, boyee! an quick, Bill, fur time’s dodrotted preecious ’bout now. Wal?”
“It’s jest this, Rube, neyther less nor more: the capt’n proposes to take the Injun’s hoss; and ride straight into thar camp.”
“Straight custrut in, do ’ee?”
“Ov coorse; it ’ud be no use goin about the bush: they kin see him a-comin’ from ony side.”
“I’ll be durned ef they kin – thet I’ll be durned. Wagh! they cudn’t ’a see me – thet they cudn’t, ef ivery niggur o’ ’em hed the eyes o’ an Argoose es hed eyes all over him – thet they cudn’t, Billee.”
“How?” I inquired. “Do you mean to say that it is possible for any one to approach yonder camp without being observed? Is that what you mean, Rube?”
“Thet ur preezactly whet I mean, young fellur. No – not adzactly thet eyther. One o’ you I didn’t say: whet I sayed wur, that this hyur trapper, Rube Rawlins o’ the Rocky Mountains, kud slide inter yander campmint jest like greased lightnin through a gooseberry-bush, ’ithout e’er an Injun seein ’im; an thet, too, ef the red-skinned vamints hed more eyes in thur heads than they hev lice; which, accordin’ to this child’s reck’nin’, ’ud guv ivery squaw’s son o’ the gang as many peepers es thur ur spots in a peecock’s tail, an a wheen over to breed, I kalkerlate. No plan to git inter thur camp ’ithout bein’ seed! Wagh! yur gettin’ green, Bill Garey!”
“How can it be accomplished, Rube? Pray, explain! You know how impatient – ”
“Don’t git unpayshint, young fellur! thet ur’s no use whetsomdiver. Yu’ll need payshinse, an a good grist o’ thet ur, afore ye kin warm yur shins at yander fires; but ’ee kin do it, an in the nick o’ time too, ef yu’ll go preezactly accordin’ to whet old Rube tells ye, an keep yur eye well skinned and yur teeth from chatterin’: I knows yu’ll do all thet. I knows yur weasel to the back o’ yur neck, an kin whip yur weight in wild cat any day i’ the year. Now? D’yur agree to follur my direekshuns!”
“I promise faithfully to act according to your advice.”
“Thet ur sensible sayed – durnation’d sensible. Wal, then, I’ll gi’ ye my device.”
As Rube said this, he moved forward to the edge of the timber, making a sign for Garey and myself to follow.
On reaching its outer edge – but still within cover – he dropped down upon his knees, behind some evergreen bushes.
I imitated his example, and knelt upon his right, while Garey crouched down on the left.
Our eyes were directed upon the Indian camp, of which, and the plain around it, we had a good view – as good as could be obtained under the light of a brilliant moon, alas! too brilliant!
After we had surveyed the scene for some moments in silence, the old trapper condescended to begin the conversation.
